A heavy-set, dark-skinned man with a clean-shaven head, a wide, scarred jaw, and a pair of cold, calculating eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses, was standing in the VIP lounge of The Apex on 4th Street. He was idly smoking a blunt, blowing thick clouds into the neon light, and chatting with a sharp, dark-haired woman in her thirties named Joan. She had been posted up in this territory for nearly two months, and a dangerous kind of alliance had formed between them. Both were there to oversee the winter supply coming through the docks. The man, Big Seth, was a kingpin who had spent his whole life building a name in the streets, while the woman was married to a twitchy, light-skinned hustler about five years her senior, whose real background was a mystery. Most called him "The Greek" because he moved product through the Mediterranean ports, though he spoke the slang of the South Side perfectly, like a man who had survived the worst blocks.
The thick-set boss, grinning like he didn't have a worry in the world, was one of the most respected hitters in the city, whose name, Big Seth, was whispered in every project and alleyway. In every trap house and corner store across the five boroughs, his "stamps" were sold, for his product was moved by every crew from the Bronx to the Shore. In order to keep the blocks running tight, he was a constant traveler across the city, meeting with suppliers and dodging hits in all sorts of grimy corners of the underground. The local Precinct Commander had once said of him that he knew more about the city's supply lines than any man alive. Certainly, Big Seth used his brutal knowledge of the game to his advantage, as seen in the high-stakes wars he won and the way he controlled the flow of the streets. Hence, his packs sold by the thousands, bringing in a massive amount of dirty paper.
He was, however, a very isolated man. Though he acted loud and easy-going at the club, a reckless boss who moved like he feared nothing, he possessed a secret weakness his soldiers never suspected. There was another side to his life that stayed hidden behind the jewelry and the guns. The streets saw him as a powerful and untouchable king—he was always welcomed in the high-end lounges, and young hustlers were constantly seeking him out, begging to put in work for his crew. Because of the paranoia that comes with the throne, he had, years before, taken in his daughter's kid, Marcus, a teen left alone after a rival hit. Upon the boy, the hard, street-worn man had showered all his money, protecting him like his own blood. But now, his daughter had turned her back on the life, married a civilian, and left Seth with that same cold silence his soldiers never saw.
In that headspace, he was killing time by talking to Joan, who was dripped in designer gear, waiting for her husband to show. There had been a massive shootout at the underground casino the night before, and they were dissecting the fallout. From where they stood, the floor-to-ceiling windows gave a view of the skyline and the gray river sparkling under the morning sun. Of all the spots in the city, the South Side was the most dangerous and raw, a concrete battlefield for those seeking power and money. Seth always stayed up late. Since the first light hit the pavement, he had been in his office, busy on a new distribution deal he had been planning for years. A popular boss is always flooded with requests from hungry crews who compete for his product and give him loyalty years in advance. The territory for this new deal was out in the suburbs, but he had resolved to run it from the 4th, away from the noise of the feds and the distractions of his rivals.
After a few minutes, a tall, thin-faced man with a wire-thin mustache, beady eyes, and a nervous energy joined them. He was George, Joan's husband. Though he carried himself like a boss, he was clearly on edge, which made sense since his family had been middle-men for the cartels for generations.
"Yo, Seth!" he barked with a forced laugh. "You up early!"
"Yeah," Seth chuckled, his voice deep. "I been up since six. Handle-ing business while the city sleeps."
"We're takin' a ride to the docks; you down?"
Seth took the offer, and for an hour the trio drove along the industrial road, passing the rows of warehouses, shipping containers, and abandoned lots where the real money changed hands, even in the dead of winter. After the meet, the boss went back to his penthouse as was his habit, threw himself into a leather chair with the morning papers, and lit a fresh cigar. But instead of reading, he lay back with his eyes on the city, deep in thought. He was suspicious of Joan, whom he had first met at a drug-summit in the mountains the previous year. At the same time, he held her husband in total contempt. The man seemed to ignore his wife in favor of some flashy-dressed broad named Madame Tex, which meant Seth and Joan had been spending a lot of time together, walking the blocks alone.
Seth, a veteran of the game, had dealt with many women. He was the type they gravitated toward, yet real trust he had never felt. He who made his living on "loyalty" laughed at the word, declaring in his heart that because he had never seen it, it was just a fairy tale. He had told a crew leader once that love was just a weakness that got men killed. That afternoon, checking his own perimeter and analyzing his moves, visions of the past arose of a woman in the city who had been his ride-or-die since they were kids, and who had now moved on to a "clean" life. When she left a year ago, their long years of history ended, and that was the secret of his real coldness and why he moved from block to block caring for nobody.
He was interrupted by a young runner who brought his messages, which had arrived from the stash house across town. They were in a sealed envelope, forwarded by his top lieutenant. He sighed when he saw the stack. His trusted right-hand had dealt with the small beefs and sent the big problems for Seth to handle. As he pulled them out, he found the usual drama a boss deals with. Threats, piteous begging from junkies, requests for a sit-down, and words from every snitch in the city. One by one he looked at them and tossed them in the trash. Suddenly he came to one unopened. The envelope, written in a bold, feminine hand, was addressed to his private box. He tore it open and read. The letter was signed "Edris." It stated she was coming back to the city and hoped they could meet at the old spot, expressing a hope that they could run the game like before.
He read it twice, then slowly shredded it. He sat pale and still for some minutes. "Nah," he muttered. "I can't go back there. If she's there, I'll fold. What's the use? It'll just bring heat—too much heat. I won't hit her back. It's better this way." He paced the room, his face hard-set, his hands shaking. That letter had revived a sweet memory of a year ago in the city—the money, the laughter, the feeling of being kings. But all thought of that girl, he wanted to cut out. He tried to forget her until this letter revived the romance, and how it ended when she admitted she was trying to go legit. Her words were a blow, but he hid it, leaving her behind to focus on the game. The letter revived the longing. He remembered how loyal she had been, how she knew the streets as well as he did, and how their ideals were the same.
"Stupid! Straight stupid!" he muttered, looking at the skyline. "Going back would just bring pain. She's probably happy. Why should I step in? Love! I'm a fool! It don't exist. Poor Marcus—the kid has nobody but me, and I'm barely there!" Tears hit his eyes as he stood there, a legendary figure in the hood, nursing his sorrow in secret. In the streets, he laughed and moved with a devil-may-care vibe, showing a brave heart to the world. For ten minutes he stood with knit brows, torn by his emotions. Then, gathering the papers, he locked them in his safe, grabbed his jacket, and ordered a car to take him across the bridge to the grimy coast where the rival crews were lurking on the horizon. He stopped at a corner store, downed a drink, and drove back into the city as the sun bled out.
That night, entering the club's dining room, he saw Joan sitting alone. She gestured to him. "Sit with me, Seth. My husband left for the Bronx. He got a page this afternoon and bounced!"
"Gone?" Seth acted surprised, but inside he was on high alert. "You're alone now?"
"Yeah," she said, looking up with a strange look. "You sorry about that?" she asked low.
"Course not," he laughed, sliding into the seat. "How long you alone?"
"Two weeks. He's gotta handle work up in Philly and Jersey. He thought I'd be safer here than on the road."
"Then he's back next Wednesday?" Seth asked as the food arrived. He moved the center-piece so he could see her eyes. She was in a dark velvet dress that showed off her skin and a rope of heavy pearls. As they ate, he decided she was the perfect play, and having her alone for two weeks was exactly what he needed. Their talk drifted to the game. She told him George was always moving through the capitals of the underground on business. Seth understood he was a middle-man for the Greeks, moving weight between Europe and the States. That night, without being too loud, he got facts about George's travels that didn't add up, especially the hurried exit.
"You think your man is hittin' the West Side this time?" Seth asked, blowing smoke.
"No," she said hard. "I know he ain't going there, or he would've taken me." Her tone made him curious.
"He left fast. Wish I could've said peace to him," Seth remarked.
"Do you?" she asked with that mysterious look.
"Yeah. When'd he get the word?"
"At three. He was out by four."
Seth stayed silent, then shifted the talk, suggesting a ride the next morning. At midnight, she finished her drink, wished him a "good-night," and left. As soon as she hit the elevator, Seth went to the security booth and asked what time the page came for George.
"No pages came today, Boss," the security kid said. "I been here since noon. I log everything." He showed the book. George's name wasn't there.
"Good lookin' out," Seth said. "Keep this between us." He went to his room with a grin. "I knew it! They think they're slick! The game just got interesting."